


Fensuresque 2: This Time, It's Not Fenestration 1!

by GutsAllegoryRam



Series: Fenestrate Coda [1]
Category: Soul Eater
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 03:41:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1925433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GutsAllegoryRam/pseuds/GutsAllegoryRam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Continuation of a wonderful fanfic which had a very tragic and unexpected ending. See, it's not so bad- they're gonna be ok! EVERYTHING WILL BE OK!!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fensuresque 2: This Time, It's Not Fenestration 1!

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Fenestration](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1916316) by [fabulousanima](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabulousanima/pseuds/fabulousanima). 



> Just read the original fic^^^^. I know one of the commentators on that story talked about writing a happy alternate... continuation... thing. Well, I saw an opening and I went for it!
> 
> I'll be adding to this in the future, but I have work and other things to tend to now, I haven't even proofread this fic, but I wanted to strike while the iron was hot.
> 
> The original work had a sort of cameo in Blair, and I've got a cameo (really something stronger than a cameo) planned for another major SE character when I pick this back up; see if you can guess who and in what capacity!
> 
> Have a jam (let's imagine Soul was listening to this at the time of, well, you know):  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=As79TRZIo30

Soul groaned as he stepped into the apartment for the first time in… god, it had been a half a week. He had been beaten up rather unceremoniously in the motorcycle accident, nursing a broken arm, numerous sickly bruises and marks dotting his body and a gaping scuff along his shoulder… it was safe to say Soul Evans was worse for wear, but was still standing.

 

It’d been a day or so of heavy sedatives, one which blurred together in Soul’s mind as barely an hour, if that. There was another day of coming to his senses, recalling the kink in the road that upset his motorcycle and then flashes of losing balance, hitting the ground, something like that. It took an entire other day just to acclimate to a new level of pain, particularly since Soul was not one to suffer the indignity of using a bedpan— bruised at the hip, Soul experienced great pain getting to his feet but nevertheless soldiered his way into a nearby bathroom. There was, finally, a day of feverish insistence, that he was functional, that his recovery was best served in the comfort of his own apartment.

 

Never once did he let on his exact reasons for needing to be back at home; he averted his eyes whenever pressed on the question of who could take care of him (not a single family member had the time to stay with Soul _at his apartment_ ). Soul wanted to believe there’d be someone there, but… but it was no problem for his family to hire a nurse on standby (it was certainly a problem to wrestle a reason out of Soul for his noncommittal to such a proposition, however).

 

Soul wanted to keep very private his reasons for going back; many of the staff had written him off: “spoiled brat”, “imbecile”, “undeserving of a life he has nearly lost”. There was no denying how image-conscious Soul was; he was a person who strode feverishly to present himself as nonchalant-yet-personable as possible, but none of that mattered in the hospital. It reached the point that close friends were turning themselves away when they came to visit him; disgusted with his impudent, headstrong behavior in the wake of a serious accident.

 

In the end, it was through the gentle pressing of Soul’s parents, reminding hospital staff of their family’s storied and generous history of contributions, that he was given leave. Even they had been reluctant, somewhat perturbed at his moody and terse insistence on reasons for returning so promptly, but with the double-overtime pay pledged to a particularly curious and sympathetic nurse, as well as the promise of financial assistance to some dozen patients in conditions **much** more critical than Soul’s, papers were signed, rules were overturned, headaches were abated, and Soul Evans was given license to return to his apartment.

 

Not in quite some time had he been so relieved to turn over the key, feel the lurching pressure of the deadbolt releasing, and the meaty friction of the door against its frame, opening and letting him into his flat. Soul rushed to the bathroom, looking himself over in his own mirror, free of the flaccid color of the hospital’s halogen lights. In the push to get home, he’d never stopped to see the extent of the damage: the right side of his face was puffy, his skin looked raw even with the gauze obscuring most of the nastiest bits. He shuddered to think if she’d look at him the same with all the bandages covering him when he heard the slam of shutters.

 

“Ma— Wes? What?” his brother Even stood there, snickering guiltily to himself as he closed the shutters. He bit his lip, stifling a telltale that-was-so-unnecessary-but-so-funny sneer that made Soul’s blood boil. “WHAT DID YOU TELL HER?” he snarled.

 

“I-I may have l… laid it on… a little too thick,” Wes bit his thumb as Soul lunged into a kick, howling savagely as his hip bit at him. Wes sobered up instantly, regarding Soul with a look of concern as he limped over to the shutters. The sun was blinding and scorching hot, the sight of closed shutters making Soul’s heart sink, sharply and guiltily. “Soul? Is this what yo—” His brother’s words were cut off as he limped his way out of the apartment.

 

He had been so stupid to not do this sooner; accident or not, why had he never worked up the courage, to invite her over, or visit her, or do something more than just chat across the alleyway— stupid, STUPID, STUPID, STUPID, STUPID, the words screamed in his mind, pulsing in time with the throbbing pain of all sides as he skipped the elevator and hobbled his way down the stairs. His eyes dabbed with tears as he crossed the alley and into the lobby of her apartment building. Was it pain or lingering sedatives that made him feel numb and woozy, as he scanned first the mail slots by the front desk, and then a floor plan of the building? He shuffled haphazardly into an elevator and hastily hammered the button for the fourth floor.

 

The stares and scattered whispers in the lobby and outside their buildings meant nothing to him; all that mattered was reaching apartment 420. In any other time, he would have praised the lord, praised the mighty spirits above, god in his/her/its heaven, the kingdom come for blessing quaint, unsuspecting Maka with such a gloriously, abominably, grossly unsuitable apartment number; he even choked back a teary gasp of laughter as the elevator pulled into place, but now was not the time to tease Maka Albarn.

 

Soul stumbled his way down the hall, trying to imagine how devastated Maka must have been to be on the receiving end of such a callous, horrible, awful joke. As much as Soul had opened up to her, he wasn’t sure what type of person she was— would she be the type to…? He shook his head as it flashed with images of Maka’s lifeless body, crying slightly at the agony of his hip as he neared the studio apartment. As soon as he was back to full health, Soul was going to make Wes SUFFER, for playing so cruel a prank on someone so undeserving… He was there.

 

Soul hesitated only for a second before slamming the palm of his hand against her door in a savage staccato knock. He could hear choked gasps beyond the door, then footsteps as the door opened and his heart fluttered. The door opened to reveal Maka, eyes red and puffy, as she regarded him something like a ghost. Maka stood motionless, jaw agape as she waited for something out of Soul, a word, a noise, anything.

 

“Th-That was a, fuh-fucking, STUPID joke, I didn’t know my broth—” Soul was mid-word when Maka threw a mighty punch, knocked him back with a yelp, slammed her door shut and retreated into her apartment, scattered sobs seeping through the door as Soul bit back tears of his own. He thought to call out to her… No. No, he couldn’t continue to harass her, not in the state she was in. He trudged back to his own flat, dabbing his eyes and finally registering the splitting pain as he arrived to the sight of his nurse and the abrupt absence of his brother.

 

“Figures,” he croaked, gritting his teeth and making no motion to open the shutters back up.


End file.
